


When The Cycle Begins to Tear

by Futsin



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Civil War, Columbia (BioShock), Father-Daughter Relationship, Freedom Fighters, War, War for Independence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:27:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23369215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Futsin/pseuds/Futsin
Summary: As the war rages on in Columbia, Elizabeth Comstock seeks Booker. Something has changed.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	When The Cycle Begins to Tear

**Author's Note:**

> This was done as a prompt on Tumblr *years* ago and sadly won't likely be expanded on any time soon. But, I enjoyed it. Features lots of my own headcanons and ideas. It pictures an alternate version of the timeline, where the war between Fitzroy and Comstock, with Booker as a rather destructive third party, continues for an extended period. To the point where Elizabeth becomes a far bigger player in the history of the city in the sky. The ending also makes it very clear it will end differently than the game… which, well, hey, fic, right?

There was rain. Thunder. And then the fires rose from the building, struck by the bolt and igniting the gunpowder in the storage. The black winged shape blew through the flames, its mighty metal frame pushing on into the sky. Its companion gazed upon the results of her action. The resulting distraction was enough, as mindless slaves to Comstock and automatons that were no different went searching for a sign of what had caused the blast. They changed course in their search, for now, and Elizabeth guided the Songbird further up towards the next grand floating platform of cityscape, through clouds and smoke plumes, illuminated by the fires of the war-ravaged Columbia.

She sought the trail of destruction Booker left in his wake, where the reinforcements had been heading, and found it littered with more burning carriages and pieces of broken mechanical horses. Cobbled streets broken by grenades and casings piled in alleyway machinegun placements. Bodies left unceremoniously like so much garbage to be swept away. The battle for the city in the clouds had gone on for weeks now and there was so little sign of its end. And for all the times she had tried to convince him that this violence was not the answer, he would respond by blowing up another barracks, tearing down another of the rail systems, sabotaging the weapon supply lines. But Comstock’s resources proved there was no end to it all. The war would not end and it would only increase in power and strength, all guided towards destroying Booker Dewitt and Daisy Fitzroy and all the other insurgents and seditionists, until it was the only thing that could be remembered and the children of tomorrow would be taught there has always been the war in Columbia. Elizabeth sought to end this cycle that night, with the new information the Luteces had laid out in Socratic method conversation and obtusely hid in statements going all the way back to her first encounter with them. There was another way, there always had been. But first, she had to save Booker, both the cause and the solution.

The Songbird’s iron head twisted with a creak, towards a particular part of the city district, where a giant hole had been blow through until it created a chasm people could fall into. Blue glow shimmered below, from the machines keeping the floating city in its network of satellites around Comstock’s monolithic fortress. But suddenly, just off from the chasm, was a flash of light and a scream, shout. Elizabeth gasped, looking at the source. She found it to be a smoking shotgun in the hands of the man with dusty gray hair and wearing a vest that by now had become torn and tattered by combat. Beneath his feet was another dead soldier of Comstock’s, the uniform torn to shreds and his body oozing red that soaked the sidewalk. There he was, same as he always were, fighting the fight. The soldier. But, something gave and in a second, Booker dropped to one knee, then slid to the ground, using the shotgun to hold himself up. Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “BOOKER!” she shouted and guided the Songbird down, swooping through the rain and clouds.

Booker leaned against a fallen food kiosk, coughing, inhaling the mixed scent of gunpowder and sour apples. He heard the swoosh of wings briefly before the metal behemoth slammed into the ground, busting the concrete beneath its claws. Elizabeth climbed down from it and Booker smiled. She was getting so good at controlling that thing. She was dressed in a jacket that bore the insignia of the caged bird on the sleeve, her pants thick to combat the coming winter Columbia was flying into, and on her feet were combat boots that clopped on the ground as she ran towards him. She crouched, her hand so small and gentle on his shoulder, and squeezed his muscle. “Are you all right?” she asked. He nodded. “Hungry. Most of the food’s gone bad out here.” Elizabeth looked at the apples around them and picked one up. With a brief moment’s concentration, she created a tear, the perfect one, and restored the apple through transference of dimensions. Through static and light and time, she made the apple fresh again. Booker grinned, then coughed. She was really getting good at that. No nosebleed that time. He took the offered apple and Elizabeth looked around. “This area… it used to be beautiful.” It looked like garbage now, all the concrete burned or discolored by fire, or stained by blood and rotting food and the broken plumbing of sewage systems. She could barely remember what it had looked like now and that made her all the sadder. And it reminded her now, why she was here, why she had come for him. “Booker,” she started, “we need to talk.” Booker finished the apple in a hurry and tossed the core away. She watched it roll away and suppressed a sigh. “Talk?” he said, before swallowing. When he did, he looked right as rain again, save the grimace of anger. “Out here, the only talk I get is, ‘hey there he is, kill the bastard.’ But sure, Elizabeth… what do you have? Did you get the message from Fitzroy’s people?”

Elizabeth shook her head, answering his question and expressing frustration with him. How she could ever be related to Booker, this Booker in particular, was a revelation that she still barely understood. He had been a guardian, a protector, and some legends say a blood-soaked marauder and imperialist tin-soldier. But, he had also been her loving father. She had to hold onto that as she slowly answered. “When looking in the library, I came across a reference to one of the architects of Columbia, one I hadn’t heard about before. It turns out; his journal was one of the books the Luteces had left me in the airship. You remember the key you got from Saltonstall?” Booker thought and then nodded. “That key opens a door that only this architect knew about,” said Elizabeth. Her father scoffed. “So, you think this room is important? Why?”

She took a deep breath. “Because inside is a secret, the biggest one of all. One that the Luteces kept… they were always trying to tell us about it. Leaving breadcrumbs every time we encountered them or they encountered us. Columbia isn’t a place of roads and destinations, Booker, it’s a puzzle. And now I finally knows how they fit.” Booker cocked his head, that rogue’ish smile on his face. She felt a warmth at the sight of it, it was one of the few traits she also grew to have. “What are you trying to say?” he asked.

“I know how to break the circle,” she replied.


End file.
